The Picture of Anthony J Crowley
by crystals-for-food
Summary: Over lunch one day, Aziraphale offers to paint Crowley's portrait. Over the centuries, Crowley has kept it hung properly, but after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, the picture seems to be rotting away.
1. The Painting

It was a nice day.

The studio was filled with the rich odor of roses, and, when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

A divan made entirely of handcrafted Persian saddlebags curled around Antony J Crowley who, as usual, was smoking an ineffable amount of cigarettes. The smoke lazily blooming from the most recent burning butt hung in the air, intertwining with the slats of buttery sunshine spilling in from the garden. From where Crowley was sitting, if he craned his neck just right, he could see the bright yellow blossoms of the Indian laburnum draping from shivering branches.

With frail wings spread, birds flitted past the silken curtains. They soared out of sight the moment they had appeared like ancient gods in a Japanese shadow play. If he listened closely, he could hear the droning of bees and the distant call of the vanished birds, but the studio was blanketed in a thick, stuffy layer of insufferable quiet. He groaned and sat up, gesturing vaguely to the angel painting in the center of the room. "Ngh, angel, say something. It's too quiet in here," he said.

The angel, who was called Aziraphale, didn't even look up from his work. "I have to concentrate, you know, Crowley. I can't keep entertaining you whenever you fancy yourself dull," he said, leading with a sigh. The kind that comes from your toes and collects all the loving frustration in your heart you have for an unrequited crush.

"Well, well then, at least sing or… or get us a drink. Yes, get us a drink," Crowley said.

"I am not getting us a drink. You told me you wanted your portrait done today, and I'm going to finish it before we do anything else."

"You don't have to finish it now, just today."

"I'm finishing it _now_, Crowley."

Crowley tossed his head back and echoed the punctuation of Aziraphale's statement with another hellishly irritated groan. "Why are you always so _difficult_, angel?" Crowley said.

"Difficult? I'm difficult? You have a twisted sense of irony," Aziraphale said. He put down his paintbrush and wiped his hands on his kerchief, turning to Crowley. "If you would just give me a few more minutes, I'll have finished your eyes, and then I'll make us up some lemonade and tea cakes."

"Let me see it," Crowley said, gesturing vaguely toward the painting. He hadn't known until recently that Aziraphale had taken up learning the arts. Or, at least, a common medium in which the arts had found a foothold. Of course, _skill _in said medium was another matter; it was _un_common and therefore very not cheap, so this was the first portrait Crowley had gotten done of himself. He could have tempted someone to do it, but headquarters would have found that a selfish display of his powers. And while selfishness was a praiseworthy quality for demons to possess, it was only when they used it to procure souls for their master that it could be labeled as praiseworthy. That was why Crowley had stuck to spitefully stealing paintings from the Louvre for the past half century.

Until Aziraphale had said over lunch one day, "I would like to paint you, my dear."

After a bit of surprised spluttering, Crowley had agreed and tried to offer Aziraphale something in return, but the angel simply smiled. "I'm fairly positive you don't have anything I need," he said.

"I could think of something," Crowley said, though he had nothing in mind and likely wouldn't think of anything until after his customary afternoon nap.

He hadn't conjured up a suitable trade by the end of lunch, but they made plans for Crowley's sitting next week since Aziraphale had to nip over to Edinburgh and perform a miracle or two or three.

It had been good for Crowley too. He had taken a train to Glasgow for some demonic miracles of his own, but he had found nothing much to do to the humans that the humans weren't already doing to themselves. What a tepid city, Glasgow. It was one of his more fiendish accomplishments.

Another accomplishment would be to stretch his legs or even change positions, but every time he tried, Aziraphale shooed him back into the stiff pose that had contracted his muscles all morning. He was beginning to lose interest in his portrait. He had a mirror in his bathroom, and furthermore, he knew he was handsome. Why did he need a splat of paint on canvas to remind him?

"No! Just sit still a moment longer, please," Aziraphale said. His eyebrows squirmed together, worrying his forehead with a pale bouquet of wrinkles and fine lines. Crowley wondered if those lines ever stuck around after the angel finally relaxed. Crowley himself had begun fretting about signs of age — a very human thing to do, but what could one really expect of a demon who'd been on Earth since The Beginning? Sometimes, he would pause in front of a mirror and take stock of himself vainly as a demon should. A nice jawline, a full tuft of ginger hair, long legs in dark slimming pants. He would then stoop forward and squint and think, _Is that a wrinkle or has it always been there? _Thoughts like that had a way of sneaking into your mind whether you were immortal or not.

Crowley tried to settle back in his chair and temper his expression. Cramps tingled along his body like spiders, entirely there for a moment then simmering below the surface when he tried to work them out. He could really go for lemonade and tea cakes now.

"Angel, are you done yet?" he asked.

The angel pinched the bridge of his nose, obviously over Crowley's incessant complaining. "Oh, you demons. All hellfire and brimstone until you have to do something you don't want to do," the angel muttered, mixing paint on his palette.

"What does that even mean?"

"Well, you know. Hubris and all that. Doesn't do you any good."

Crowley rolled his eyes and made a good show of it. "Still don't know what you mean."

"Hubris, you know, that's what you've got. That's why you fell. Think big of yourself until it all starts to go wrong."

"Hubris, eh? Nah, I fell 'cause I hung around the wrong people."

Aziraphale ignored him. "Hubris. Ah, it's stood the test of time. The Greeks were overly fond of it as a theme to drive their epic tragedies. Which reminds me, how about we journey down to the theater this weekend? I hear _Oedipus Rex _is making its rounds."

"Not _Oedipus_," Crowley groaned. "It's stupid and 's not funny at all."

"Well, I happen to think it's a fantastic play though the whole bit with him marrying his mother is… ah…"

"Dysfunctional? Creepy? Weird as all hell?"

"Quite… damning."

Crowley barked a laugh, the kind that starts in your toes and tears through the rest of your body like the pointy end of a sword. "I believe you're right, angel," he said.

Still troubled about Oedipus and his doomed romance with his mum, Aziraphale continued painting. The birds outside trilled an opera as the sun reached its zenith. Midday had come without a midmorning snack, and Crowley found this stunning. Aziraphale never skipped a designated meal or even a self-scheduled snack. "You're not peckish yet, are you?" the demon asked.

The angel didn't answer. Instead, he stepped back from the canvas, tilted his head this way and that, then deemed his work acceptable enough to be seen by somebody else. "I've finished," he said. He beamed at Crowley, gesturing for the demon to take a peek.

"I thought you said you were doing my eyes," Crowley said.

Aziraphale looked at him cheekily. "I was," he said, "but I had finished the rest of you already."

"Hmm, you can be a bastard," said Crowley approvingly. He gratefully slid off the saddlebags and sauntered over, flicking his glasses atop his head so he could better grasp the colors.

The portrait was beautiful. He was looking up at the ceiling, sunshine gleaming like an aura around him, his hair a halo of flickering flames. The angel had captured his slender legs and waist in such intimate detail that the thought of Aziraphale studying him so thoroughly made the demon blush. But the most astonishing thing of all was the way he held the cigarette; it was tender, the unlit end dangerously close to his ever-so-slightly parted lips. Crowley's heart, if he had had one, would have stopped beating entirely upon seeing the painting, but he was saved in that regard by the fact that he was only a man-shaped creature, not entirely a man.

He glanced at Aziraphale and felt the overwhelming need to kiss him. Everywhere. His lips, nose, chin, neck, shoulder… but he settled for a clearing of his throat and, "Uh… I, uh… Didn't expect that amount of talent."

"Well, it was a pleasure to exercise my creative muscles," Aziraphale said. He beamed up at Crowley and then headed out of the studio, stopping at the doorway. "I didn't realize it was so late. Come now, let's get a spot to eat, my dear."

Crowley cleared his throat again. There was a tickle there, something warm and fuzzy that he thought demons shouldn't ever feel. "Right, yes, of course," said Crowley.

He took one last look at the portrait. A blush crept across his cheeks, teeming at his ears. He had known Aziraphale for six thousand years, and somehow, he had forgotten that Aziraphale had known _him _for six thousand years as well. Nobody else could paint something that was so characteristically him, especially not with Aziraphale's skill set. He was good, yes, but this was no hyperrealist painting. It had bright, swirling colors that contrasted softly with the harsh, sharp lines of his clothing, his jawline. It was in no way brilliant, but familiarity leaked out of every shape, line, and whorl of paint. Heat climbed from his toes and spread through the fairways of his whole being. What feeling it invoked, he couldn't tell; he only knew he liked it.

With another clearing of his

throat, the demon smiled to himself and followed

after Aziraphale. "My treat," he said cheerfully.

If Crowley would have looked at the painting after he said it, he would have noticed the slightest hint of fading around the cigarette. Or maybe he wouldn't have. You can never know what someone will notice and what they won't.


	2. The Picture

Demons are supposed to be vile. They're supposed to do wicked, demony things like unzip your fly after you swore you closed it, switch the salt and sugar labels in the breakroom, and create a highway that causes all sorts of little frustrated people every morning and evening rush. They are not, for example, supposed to pay for an angel's meal at The Ritz.

However, as Crowley had thought to himself for many millennia, he had not meant to Fall. In his own words, he had "sauntered vaguely downwards" and "hung around with the wrong people." He was not like the other demons in hell, not really. Sure, he enjoyed a little mischief here and there, but they liked murder, genocide, and had no clue what to make of modern technology. And, as a rule, they did not fall in love with angels.

If anyone from Crowley's side ever figured out the depth of his relationship with the angel, they would have dragged him back to hell, declared he'd gone native, and doused him in holy water. A wholly unsatisfactory way to go but it ensured a complete death, not just discorporation.

It was a wonder hell never actually found out, but they did end up dragging him back for the whole preventing-the-Apocalypse thing. Which would have been especially taxing had Agnes' prophecy not suggested a clever little face-swapping trick with said angel. An ironic suggestion. Really cemented the whole on-their-own-side sentiment. At least, that was what Crowley thought after his and Aziraphale's lunch date at The Ritz. He spent most of the ride back to his flat thinking about it.

Once home, Crowley sank deeply into his chair. He almost clicked on the television but thought better of it, not keen on giving Hastur a way of communicating with him should Beezlebub break their promise to leave Crowley alone so soon. They would be back eventually, of course, but he'd be ready for them. Probably. Hopefully.

Fuck, maybe he should commission Aziraphale for another thermos of holy water.

He sighed and closed his eyes, not wanting to think about holy water, hell, or anything else for a long while. A nap struck his fancy. He hadn't had one of those in a week, and he pounced on the opportunity now, sauntering down the hallway toward his bedroom.

But halfway there, he stopped and popped his glasses atop his head. His mouth fell open in surprised irritation, and his eyes scrunched up like an old man trying to read an Internet article. The old portrait Aziraphale had done for him at the turn of the twentieth century was literally sagging out of its frame, the colors faded and nearing a totally gray chromatic scale. Jagged scars in the canvas had peeled away, leaving half an eye, three-fourths of a cigarette, and a leg without an ankle.

"What in the name of… Sa—Je—bloody _somebody_," Crowley hissed. He squinted at the painting, not having the slightest idea what to do. This wasn't normal, he knew that much. Paintings didn't sag like beer bellies at a barbecue no matter how old they were. He tried to miracle the damage away, but the portrait's pathetic condition refused to change a mite.

He tried another demonic miracle.

Same result. Or lack thereof.

He blessed in irritation, his plants shivering with Pavlovian terror. What was he going to tell Aziraphale? _Should _he tell him? Perhaps the angel would know something about the decay of portraits that haven't seen a camera flash, another person, or elements other than otherworldly force for the past hundred or so years.

Flabbergasted, Crowley ran back into his office and rang Aziraphale.

The angel answered with his normal spiel about how his bookshop was closed. As if it was ever open. "Angel, shut up. Listen. Remember that portrait you painted of me? Very nice and all, but yeah, remember?" he said, his words spilling out in a waterfall rush.

"Oh. Yes, I do. Has something happened to it? I can paint another if you'd like," the angel said, sounding rather unconcerned.

"No, it's… it's falling apart. The colors are faded and some of it is completely missing," Crowley said.

"Well, can't you just miracle it?"

"That's the _thing_, angel; I _can't_."

A pause. A rustling and the squeak of a chair.

"What do you mean you can't?" Aziraphale asked carefully.

Crowley scoffed. "I mean, I can't. When I've tried, the damage stays just the same. What the fuck am I supposed to do?"

"How should I know?" the angel asked.

"I don't know! You know about art. You painted that portrait of me," he said. He thought about it for a moment, a theory beginning to spin in his mind. "Is it because you're an angel, you painted it, then gave it to a demon?"

Aziraphale took a deep breath, and the line crackled as if alive with the fear of the unknown. "Perhaps but you haven't noticed anything wrong with it until today, have you?"

"No," Crowley said, thinking about how the Antichrist had put everything back the way it was before Armageddon-that-wasn't. That meant something distinctly magical had plotted against the poor painting but what? "Say, come over and help me figure this out, would you?"

"I could spare a moment," the angel agreed.

"Great. I'll be there to pick you up in five minutes."

Crowley slammed the phone down, grabbed his keys, and hurried to his Bentley. The painting's colors, once vibrant and cheery years ago, dimmed just a little bit more.

Aziraphale blinked at the painting.

Crowley circled him, hands clasped behind his back. A new piece had peeled away since Crowley had gone to pick the angel up and now the other eye was gone. "I worked so hard on those," Aziraphale said pensively, gently touching the sagging piece of Crowley's eye. "They were my favorite things that I had painted."

"Yes, well, you can look at the real thing any time you want, angel," Crowley grumbled. He took the painting down from its hook and surveyed the back of it then the wall. Both looked normal except for the holes, of course, in the canvas.

While Crowley was busy straightening the portrait back on its hook, Aziraphale snapped his fingers. "Perhaps I can try miracling it," he said. Then he tried, waving his arms in a grandly needless gesture.

The painting just gravitated even further toward the floor.

Aziraphale's frown bordered on a pout. "Why wouldn't my miracles work? I created that painting," he said.

"Careful," Crowley said, hiding a chuckle. "That's nearly blasphemy."

"Oh, come off it, it's a painting!"

Crowley clapped a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder and said, "Looks like it's a little more than that, wouldn't you say?"

"I don't know," Aziraphale said, exasperated. "This is a first for me as I'm sure it is for you. Paintings don't usually do this, not even in museums where people take those flash pictures of them all day."

Crowley leaned against the wall, studying the peeling canvas and sepia colors. He tilted his head this way and that as if the answer would appear to him at a different angle. Another theory came to him, but he decided he didn't like it. Still, it felt like something he should mention. "Warning," he said.

"What about one?" asked Aziraphale.

"What if that painting is one? Well, what's happening to it, I mean," Crowley elaborated, gesturing wildly. "Hell isn't known to keep their promises, angel, and if they come after me again… Let's switch again."

"No! We're not doing that! I'm quite fond of my body," Aziraphale said. He smoothed his waistcoat carefully, looking anywhere but into Crowley's eyes. "And I don't think they'll come after you again. They seemed very cautious of you—er, me—after the trial."

Crowley ran a hand through his hair. He was running out of theories because while he had more creativity than the average demon (or angel, for that matter), there was only so much creativity a demon could muster. Humans, though, humans could amass all odd quantities of creativity. Which is why he said, "That girl with the bicycle. Is she still in that Tadfield cottage?"

"Well, I surely don't know," Aziraphale said.

"Let's find out," said Crowley.

Seated at Anathema's kitchen table, Crowley stared down at the coffee in front of him. _Bloody Americans, _he thought. Aziraphale sat beside him and scrunched his nose up at the strong, cigarette smell. With a small waggle of his finger, he'd turned his into a tar-like black tea.

"Picky, picky," Crowley said.

Aziraphale fixed him with a glare then helped himself to some sugar.

Anathema and her clumsy excuse for a boyfriend (or Newt, as she called him) pored over the painting, too close for Crowley's liking, but he kept quiet. He needed to know what had happened to it or at least have an idea. "Found anything?" he asked.

The witch shook her head. "I don't understand. You said it was fine up until today?" she said.

"I don't know. A few days ago at least after the Antichrist, you know," he said helpfully.

"Right," said Anathema, sharing a glance with Newt. "I wonder…"

Newt's eyes widened. _"Oh."_

"What?" said Crowley. "What's that 'oh' for?"

"Well, when we arrived back home, a man came to deliver a box of Agnes' prophecies for after the prevented apocalypse," she explained. She met Crowley's eyes then looked away, the slightest bit of a blush appearing on her cheeks. "I can't help but wonder if there may have been something in them about this."

"Okay then. What are we waiting for?" Crowley asked.

"Let's go have a look-see," Aziraphale chimed in, sipping his tea daintily.

The human couple exchanged another infuriating set of sheepish looks.

"Well—" began Newt.

"We burned them," finished Anathema. She wiped her hands on her skirt, offering them an apologetic smile-and-nod.

Neither of these things appeased Crowley who stood up and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "No, no, it's _fine_, yes. Why not? Seems like a perfectly _reasonable _thing to do. Wouldn't want to help anybody now, would we?" he hissed.

"It wasn't about that," Newt protested.

"We didn't mean anything by it. We just—I—" Anathema tried but gave up when Crowley shoved past them both and collected the poor little painting. She watched him with a kind of pity in her gaze like how she would look at someone who was blissfully unaware their shirt was inside-out.

Crowley carried the painting as if it was a baby before shoving it rather unceremoniously into Aziraphale's arms. "Come on, angel. We're leaving," he said, his keys already in his hand.

"Oh!" the angel exclaimed when the painting was planted in his lap. He hopped out of the chair and followed Crowley outside, turning back to call out to Anathema and Newt, "A lovely place you've got here! Truly one of a kind!"

Then the door shut with a finite bang.

Anathema didn't remember it having that much weight to it. She shook her head, blinked like she could erase the memory, and collected the coffee cups. She noticed tea leaves in the bottom and showed them to Newt. "I made them coffee, didn't I?" she said.

"Yes," Newt said slowly, picking up the coffee pot. Tea leaves swirled in the bottom, caught in gravity's current. They stared at them, their mouths hanging open longer than either of their mothers would have allowed.

Outside, Aziraphale held back a giggle as a very irritated Crowley struggled with the garden gate before miracling it open. "Fucking latch," he mumbled.

"My dear, it's all right. I'll paint you another," Aziraphale told him. He held the painting at arm's length, studying it and turning it this way and that as if the sunlight would reveal a hidden message.

Crowley opened Aziraphale's car door for him.

"No, it wouldn't be the same," the demon said.

Aziraphale wasn't listening. He caught sight of another peeling patch, furling up like a scroll as the car door clicked.

A memory from long ago came to him. He couldn't quite remember the year, but he remembered that it was sometime after the whole fiasco at St. James. It was where he had picked up one of his finest possessions, the very first edition of Oscar Wilde's _The Picture of Dorian Gray_. Oscar had asked the angel to accompany him and Lord Alfred to the theater where Oscar had presented him with a signed copy of his new book. Aziraphale had read it all in one night and had reread where Basil professed his love to Dorian before Dorian killed him, further damning the portrait his suitor had painted for him, again and again. The portrait had aged and withered with his curdling soul while the real Dorian had stayed young and vibrant.

Could it be…? But Crowley wasn't doing anything _bad_.

"Good," Aziraphale whispered, his eyes as wide as moons.

"What? Get in the car, angel. It's hot out here," Crowley said. He crossed his ankles and gestured toward the passenger seat.

Aziraphale scurried forward, showing Crowley the newly ripped piece. "See this? See? It happened right when you opened the car door for me," he said, breathless with boyish wonder.

Crowley cocked an eyebrow. "And?"

"Don't you _see_?" Aziraphale insisted. "It's like _Dorian Gray_ but reversed! You're a demon, so when you do something nice, the man in this picture fades away just a little bit more. It's not anything bad, it's _good_."

It was then that Aziraphale realized he was pressed up against Crowley's chest, holding out the painting so they could both see it. He could feel Crowley's heartbeat racing against his spine, and he swallowed back the excitement that shivered to life within him. How had he not noticed? He had always been careful to keep his distance from Crowley ever since that night in the 1960s. When he gave Crowley the holy water. When he told Crowley their relationship was going too fast. He was a fool for saying it and an even bigger one for believing he meant it.

He took a step back and flashed Crowley what he thought would look like an innocent smile. "Crowley?" he asked.

Had he finally gone too far?

"No, no, yeah, got it," the demon finally said. "Painting's gone south 'cause I've gone native, eh? I'm too nice now. Serves me right for hanging around an angel for six thousand years."

The last comment struck deep inside Aziraphale's soul. It left him without breath, his lungs flushed clean of any sort of usefulness. This must have been how Crowley felt that night.

_You go too fast for me, Crowley._

He should never have said that. He had regretted it the moment he stepped out of the Bentley, but he hadn't taken it back. But maybe he could now.

Gently, Aziraphale set the painting in the car before turning to Crowley and taking his hand. "My dear, that painting is a testament to how much you've grown," he said, "and how much… well, how much _we've _grown as friends."

Crowley looked down at their intertwined hands then pulled away, hiking up his jacket collar. "Friends. Right," he mumbled.

The angel could swear he heard something break. Neither of them had a heart but something had definitely severed between them, something nearly irreparable. He had to fix it, the thing that had started that afternoon in Eden. Everything had led up to this moment, standing outside a witch's rented cottage with a wilting painting in Crowley's reconstructed Bentley.

How far did he want to push Crowley? How far did Aziraphale even _want _to push? Crowley had let the angel stay in his flat the night after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, so Crowley must want to be pushed, right?

Whatever the case, Aziraphale knew he had to make the first move to repair what he'd damaged.

_You go too fast for me, Crowley._

"You know what this journey has made me realize?" Aziraphale asked, taking a step back to give Crowley some space.

"What," Crowley said, deeply distracted in his own whirlpool thoughts.

Aziraphale's lips twitched. Something akin to regret formed his half-smile and glinted in his eyes. "That we were going too slow. Meaning, I'm asking for a favor from a few decades ago. Give me a lift, anywhere I want to go."

A crisp wind, laced with the burnt-marshmallow scent of fall, shivered through the trees. Bent the flowers. Chilled the birds and squirrels to their bones. This was the first of many lasts and the beginning of many endings.

For Crowley and Aziraphale, it signaled the threshold of a door they'd always kept locked tight. The key had been there since the start, simmering under the surface of all their insignificant fights and rebellious fraternizing. Both of them had seen it, make no mistake, but Aziraphale especially had chosen to ignore it for the Greater Good.

The Greater Good (it turned out) was not on his side. But Crowley was. He'd stuck by Aziraphale through all of those wonderfully juxtaposed six thousand years.

That afternoon, as summer turned to autumn, they slipped into the Bentley together. And as they did, they opened their respective doors to find relief waiting for them with open arms.


End file.
